It hurt as I stood there, seemingly indecisive. Simply choosing a pair of earrings, instead of life or death in the near future.
Having a mental illness sometimes feels to me like a terminal illness biding its time until I can survive no longer. The question was would I go down fighting or just let myself go passive? I had been fighting for years. Was my resolve weakening precariously at last?
D etached my mind cataloged clearly and somewhere deep within an alarm bell rang vaguely. I didn’t care too much to hear it but my therapist’s voice was all too clear in my head: Notice those dissociative moments.
Her compassion and understanding — something I could not yet give myself — and the clarity and safety I felt when with her made me listen. Dissociative moments meant danger.
I walked the streets in search of the newly located jewelry store in search of a pair of earrings to replace one I had lost. Why am I even doing this?
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